Son Of A: Rich Vietsub

"Do you know who taught your father to sew?" she whispered. "Me. In 1987. We had one needle. One spool of black thread. Your father sewed buttons onto pants for twelve hours a day. His fingers bled. He used that blood to buy you that stupid car."

They stopped at a small apartment. Inside, an old woman named Mrs. Huong sat on a plastic stool. Her hands were gnarled like ginger roots—permanently curved from forty years of pushing fabric through a sewing machine.

"Bố ơi," Liam nói. "Mai bố đưa con đi xem nhà máy nhé." son of a rich vietsub

Liam Tran had never known hunger. He knew the word for it, of course, from the history books his tutors forced upon him. But true hunger—the kind that gnaws at your ribs while you watch your mother divide a single bowl of rice three ways—was a foreign language.

Mrs. Huong didn't stand. She looked at Mr. Tan with eyes that had gone milky with cataracts. "Tan," she said, her voice a dry leaf. "Is this your boy? The one who crashed the Mercedes last month?" "Do you know who taught your father to sew

Liam đỏ mặt. Cậu tưởng bà sẽ khen cha mình. Nhưng không, bà giơ hai tay lên.

Ông Tân mỉm cười lần đầu tiên sau nhiều năm—không phải nụ cười trau chuốt dành cho đối tác, mà là nụ cười mệt mỏi, nhẹ nhõm của một người cha đã chờ đợi rất lâu. We had one needle

"Come here, boy," she said.

Liam nhìn cha mình. Lần đầu tiên, cậu thấy những vết sẹo trên đầu ngón tay của ông.

Đêm đó, Liam không thể ngủ. Căn hộ áp mái yên tĩnh, nhưng cậu cảm thấy sức nặng của tòa nhà bên dưới mình—những nhà máy, những cỗ máy, những người phụ nữ còng lưng trên bàn lúc 3 giờ sáng.

Liam was what the gossip pages called a "Cậu ấm" —a young master. He spent his mornings sleeping off champagne hangovers and his nights at rooftop bars in District 2, surrounded by models and other heirs. His life was a gilded cage, but he never tried the lock. Why would he? The silk sheets were soft.